Headlock
by AuraofDawn
Summary: noun: head·lock \ ˈhed-ˌläk \ "A hold in which a wrestler encircles an opponent's head with one arm." Or, the subtle act of Allura allowing herself to be twisted and pinned by her own ambitions, in the aim of her royal opponent.


_distant flickering, there's greener scenery  
_ _this weather's bringing it all back again_  
 _great adventures, faces and condensation_  
 _I'm going outside and take it all in..._  
\- Imogen Heap, "Headlock"

In moments like these, Allura wishes like no other that her father's memories were still with her. Figuratively they still are of course, but not a quintant goes by where she doesn't want to lock herself in her room and surround herself with the fragile petals of juniberries and her father's soft laughter.

But then she relives the moment of watching the distant flickers of her father's very essence fade away into the darkness, punctuated by the very backdrop of stars she lived among now. Its the most beautiful, painful thing she can recall ever seeing, alongside memories of her very home herself. Only in these dark spaces of yearning does she actually feel grateful that she never truly saw Altea's fall, in tragic live action, because she knows she would not have lived through it, even from afar.

She only regrets now, for all the standards easy and hard to uphold, that she's allowed herself to fall so far. To not only struggle with accepting the universe's new reality, but all the compromises that it brings.

Will she ever stop beating herself up? Must she knock her head into the wide roots of the juniper trees until her head stops playing games with itself?

A slow of time is all she wishes for now, that the ticks and vargas pass her so quickly that the Galra go from hated enemies to valuable allies in the space of a single movement.

But this is her reality now-their reality. She is the daughter of accomplished alchemists and benevolent diplomats, and she must carry these legacies until her knees buckle and break if she is to keep her people alive. Even at the cost of her own life, it would be a worthy sacrifice to make if it made the legacy of Altea shine that much brighter throughout the universe.

So she steels herself, and she orders the bridge to be opened.

And there he stands.

"Princess Allura," he greets.

"Prince Lotor," she snarls.

"And here I was beginning to think we would never meet formally," he smiles, but it only creates a sickly feeling in her stomach. The unsettling picture that swath of spotless ivory creates, punctuated by sharpened fangs, is not lost on her, and she has no desire to dwell on it for long.

"And yet these are possibly the least formal circumstances in which they occur," she snaps.

The paladins flank her fiercely and surround him maliciously, trapping his limbs in restraints before he can reply. He only blinks at them for a bewildered moment before recovering his bearings.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I did bring this on myself somewhat."

Allura grimaces. "You mean entirely."

Lotor frowns, lightly, letting some of her venom seep in before he bares the wound. "Our perspectives vary now, but I think once you take a look at my own, you'll see why I've taken the path that I have."

Her chin tilts upward in the most regal style she knows-even if it isn't quite her own style-before she deigns to his level. "We shall see."

And away he is led, the five paladins taking no risks and all leaving with him, only Allura and her turmoil remaining behind. But turmoil is a terrible companion, and all it does is force her fists to clench uncontrollably and painfully for the rest of the quintant.

She cannot help how much she may want his words to be true, to stop all this quiznaking fighting before she finally runs out of the energy and will to keep picking herself up-yet she mostly despises the fact that he had the gall to say it aloud.

Only the stars and the whiskers of mice witness her struggle, and for once, they both choose to remain silent.

[ V ]

Lotor says he has something to offer. He had said so previously, of course, but only now does he feel like being specific.

She exhales heavily through her nose before a worried series of squeaks remind her to breathe normally. Yes, she wants to, of course, but if she is able to do so in the presence of the man who had been outwitting all of them for dobashes, it will truly be a feat of strength.

She orders all of the paladins and Coran to accompany her to the holding deck.

They circle their prisoner-guest? exile? informant? none of them fit right, and continually dwelling on it gives her a headache. Like a den of clanmurel assessing their prey, they circle the glass enclosure, fold their arms, and wait.

"I have information that will aid you in further destabilizing my father's empire."

"And?" she inquires.

His white brows crumple. "And what?"

"What is it that you want in return?"

The prince's face scrunched up in confusion-mirth? surprise? she couldn't tell-before a staggered breath fell out. "I'm flattered that you wish to be so polite, princess," Ancients, that tone of voice is grating on her patience, "but I desire nothing in return presently."

The small smirk remained on his face even as he recited a list of vulnerable Galra outposts, and the paladins took over the line of questioning. All the while, it was all she could do to meter her breathing and cross her arms with an undue amount of strength.

Hesitantly, there is a motion of purpose in the air now that the paladins can get back to fighting the Galra-present company removed, of course-though she finds herself unusually anxious for it. None of them are happy about recent developments, and the disgruntled looks on their faces all attest to it, but the idea of their prisoner being useful has widened the tide, and they're eager to discover how far this wave will take them. Their Blue-Paladin-slash-princess adds nothing more to the conversation, only silently accessing all that they carefully discuss.

The crescent of paladins and leadership file out of the cellar, satisfied with their plans, away from the glass prison of their peculiar new ally. Allura, caught in her mindfulness, lags behind.

Lotor does not waste his chance to strike.

"Thank you for listening, princess," his smooth voice calls out to her.

"Don't call on your du-flax before they've squawked, Lotor," she narrows an already-stern gaze at him. "We have yet to see how your intel will check out. And then we will be vigilant on how consistent you can be."

The exiled prince remains unfazed. "I shall make sure I'm certain of my knowledge before I pass it on, then. There are limits to what I can remember, of course, but I will venture to assure you and your paladins don't come into harm's way due to my negligence."

"Yes. Make certain of that."

She moves to leave, to dispel the whirlpool that his very presence uses to pull on her nerves, but his final words force her limbs to freeze.

"Perhaps," he offered, at the edge of his cage and her patience, "you might think about returning my favors with trust. That of your coalition and yourself."

"Why mine?"

"I think we both know from personal experience that the alliances of royalty are unmatched across the universe."

This time, he doesn't smile or smirk or snivel. He speaks and finishes and looks at her with a sort of earnest nature that only pulls her deeper into depths she violently opposed to. Ancients, she wants to believe him. He supposedly only sought to tell the truth, for what reason she absolutely had to find out, lest she suffer the consequences.

The elevator ride back to the bridge is silent and empty and completely free of the usual comradery her paladins typically revel in. It is as if she stands in the cylindrical space as alone as she had been within her ten-thousand-year-old pod.

But her vitals and extremities are anything but sleepy or ageless, and seeing the paladins split off and throw themselves into opposite wings of the castle, readying for the coming mission, does nothing to soothe her worries. She can only stand on the bridge and dwell on the fact that their greatest ally or enemy sits leisurely within their own base, waiting for their success or failure-lest he have plans to exploit either end.

Once again her breathing goes haywire, and no amount of squeaking or silence can cure it.


End file.
